


Depend on Me

by kongbeanie (crazyjane)



Series: Partners in Crime [2]
Category: VIXX
Genre: Abduction, Blood and Violence, Dark, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Horror, Imprisonment, Inspired by Music, Madness, Mindfuck, Multi, Musicians, Not for the faint of heart, Psychological Horror, Psychological Torture, Sorry Not Sorry, The Author Regrets Nothing, Torture, mv tie-in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 04:15:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17460458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyjane/pseuds/kongbeanie
Summary: It’s quiet here, now that the screams have faded away. Not empty, because his ears are so sensitised now he can hear the soft brush of bare feet against the floor, the shallow breathing. The occasional hiss of pain when one of them is careless enough to stumble against the threads criss-crossing their prisons and their skin slices open. The low thrum of agony that hums through those threads was constant at first, when they were still white. Now they are scarlet, and mostly still.The sounds die down at ‘night’ - those rare occasions when their captor allows their eyes relief from the glaring white light that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once - but now, he hears agitation spreading down the long corridor. Tiny noises breaking from them, panicked and eager. A sob. A hopeless, whispered prayer. Worst of all, the relief that they haven’t yet been abandoned. Shuffling, as they turn to look.He’s here.





	Depend on Me

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Partners in Crime](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16803682) by [crazyjane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyjane/pseuds/crazyjane), [kongbeanie (crazyjane)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyjane/pseuds/kongbeanie). 



It’s quiet here, now that the screams have faded away. Not empty, because his ears are so sensitised now he can hear the soft brush of bare feet against the floor, the shallow breathing. The occasional hiss of pain when one of them is careless enough to stumble against the threads criss-crossing their prisons and their skin slices open. The low thrum of agony that hums through those threads was constant at first, when they were still white. Now they are scarlet, and mostly still.

The sounds die down at ‘night’ - those rare occasions when their captor allows their eyes relief from the glaring white light that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once - but now, he hears agitation spreading down the long corridor. Tiny noises breaking from them, panicked and eager. A sob. A hopeless, whispered prayer. Worst of all, the relief that they haven’t yet been abandoned. Shuffling, as they turn to look. 

_He’s here._

As always, anticipation makes his heart race, beat so hard it feels like it will simply burst through the bone cage of his ribs. His breath becomes ragged, harsh, too loud. He rises onto the balls of his feet, flexes his fingers. Ignores the pull and stretch of half-healed wounds. Stares. Waits for the moment when he can look into the face of the man who holds him.

He never knows what their captor will do. If he will be left alone while the others are visited. If he’ll be the first one. The only one. Sometimes, there’s nothing more than a pair of intense eyes staring at him out of a well of silence. Sometimes, a soft word of praise or reproach. Rarely, a hand reaching through the threads to caress him. Those times are the ones he looks forward to most, because then he has a chance.

Today, his captor wants to talk.

He listens. It’s impossible to do anything else. It’s always been like that, no matter where they were or how many other voices clamoured for attention. Even now, after everything, he has to listen. He hates himself for that.

It starts with observations. Clinical, detached descriptions of every one of his scars, every bloodstain on what’s left of the white shirt and pants he found himself wearing when he woke up here. And his face, always his face. Still unmarked, after everything. No matter how hard he tries, his face heals perfectly. He listens to that voice speak of his beauty, call him the perfect canvas, and his mouth stretches in a smile that holds no mirth at all.

For a long time after that, there’s nothing. It’s almost as though he’s alone, but he waits. Patience is something he learned a long time ago - hours, days, no way of telling. Long enough for him to understand the difference between absence and unnatural stillness. He knows his captor is still there. Watching him. Choosing his words.

‘You’ve stopped calling out to the others. I know you still wonder, though; shall I tell you about them?’

He tries not to react to that, but there must be something, some tiny flinch that gives him away because he can feel his captor smile. A twitch of the eye, maybe. Anything except the possibility he’s simply become that easy to read. He needs his secrets.

_Tell me, damn you. Are they even still alive?_

‘I must admit, I didn’t expect Sanghyuk to be so afraid. Oh, he was fierce at first. I’m sure you heard him, how splendidly angry he was. He flinched whenever my threads brushed against him, though. It took him a long time to accept their touch. Now he can’t stop running them through his fingers. He’s become so practised at it that he barely ever cuts himself anymore.’

_Stupid, stupid dongsaeng. You were supposed to be the brave one, **nothing** scared you. How could you let him win so easily? How could you let him turn you back into a crying child?_

‘I gave Jaehwan a window. He used to press his face against it with his mouth open. He could stay like that for hours, as though he could taste freedom beyond the glass. Now he’s forgotten the window is even there. He only ever looks at me. And he sings for me, sometimes, when he thinks I can’t hear.’

_Weak. So dependent on the love of your ‘babies’. Take that away and you become a caged bird. He pets you, doesn’t he, tells you how much you please him?_

‘Dear, angry Wonshik. He still paces like a caged animal, just a few steps each way, just enough to keep him moving but away from my threads. I can watch the muscles sliding under his skin for hours. He tells me he’s not afraid, but he’s so quick to show me his throat.’

_I expected more from **you** , at least. You were supposed to be the one who knew him, you should have seen this coming. Why didn’t you warn us? Or did he own you from the beginning?_

‘And Hakyeon, poor Hakyeon, he thought he could dance his way through my threads and never be touched. He hurt himself, quite badly. It took all my skill to keep him alive, even more to return him to something I could bear to look at. Now he holds himself beautifully still for me. Only his eyes move. His eyes, and the tears that spill down his face when he blinks.’

 _Ah, god, he broke you, he broke you, he didn’t just take your freedom, he took everything. How can you not even **want** to dance anymore?_

‘They're all content in their prisons. In a way, they've come to need them. They sleep so quietly now that sometimes they barely breathe. They depend on me utterly, and they don't dream of freedom anymore. They're perfect in their captivity.’

_I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I couldn’t save you all, I wasn’t strong enough._

_Please, be asleep inside. Please, be numb._

_Please forgive me._

'But not you.’

That change in tone, still soft, still almost affectionately conversational, but he clenches his jaw at the terrible, beautiful _musicality_ that carries his captor’s next words. The voice he knows can soar high and clear, draw gasps and cries of admiration from everyone who hears. That he used to love.

'You fight and scream and tear yourself to ribbons trying to rip your way through my threads. You pull away from me and snarl when I come to tend your wounds. You take everything and you just won't break, no matter what I do to you. Even now you bare your teeth and try to refuse me. You hate me.’

'And that's why I love you most of all. Because you'll never give in.'

_I won’t. I’ll find a way out of here. And you’ll pay for this. You’ll pay for all of them._

_Don’t tell me you love me._

‘Look at you, still dreaming of freedom, even now. So determined. What would you do to me if you finally found your way out, I wonder?’

_I’ll make you beg for your life and then I’ll tear you to pieces with my hands and my teeth._

His captor lets out a slow breath, somehow full of satisfaction. ‘Oh, there it is. That fury, that delicious promise of violence in your eyes. I’m almost tempted. Should I let you try?’

Empty question. His captor doesn’t really expect an answer, so he just stares. 

Closer now, almost brushing against the threads. ‘Shall I make you a promise? Shall I give you hope?’ 

He lunges, grabbing through the threads for his jailer, expecting his hands to close on empty air, as they always do. Instead, impossibly, he feels hair catch in his fingers. He freezes. _Move_ , he screams at himself, too late, only empty air in front of him now. He’s left with a clenched fist, an outstretched, bleeding arm slashed right across the vein. Slowly, he pulls his arm back, prods at the wound experimentally. It doesn’t hurt.

_It doesn’t hurt._

There’s blood pooling on the floor at his feet, probably too much, but he just stands, lost in revelation. _Finally done it. Finally found a way, now I can push through._ A tiny voice in him pleading that this is wrong, dangerous. So easy to dismiss, because he can see strands of his captor’s hair caught between his fingers, and he smiles, slow and terrible.

The bleeding doesn’t stop; automatically he begins to wrap the ribbons of his shirt around his arm. If he doesn’t, his captor will return and tend him. Cradle him with gentle hands, kiss him and tell him how precious he is until he bites savagely at his own lips to stop himself from weak, grateful tears. He’s never given his jailer that satisfaction, and he won’t start now. He tightens the makeshift bandage. Still no pain, and then he has it. Methodically he loosens the fabric, lets it hang from the seams. Watches the immediate flow of blood drip down his arm. 

_You’ll come to me. You’ll come, and the threads will part for you, and you’ll rush in to save your prize. And then you’re mine._

The smell is heavy in the air now, and he’s light-headed, but he can’t say if it’s blood loss, or adrenalin. He waits, poised to act. He listens. 

_Come to me. Come on. Save me._

Movement. He shakes, _wait, wait_ , mouth working silently to shape the words.

Quick footsteps, panicked breathing. Then - hesitation. _No_. He pulls in a ragged breath, screams, pouring everything into it. All the terror, all the pain, all the awful, aching need he’s denied because he needed to hang on to some part of himself. None of that matters now, and he can feel himself disappearing.

_Come to me. I need you. I’ll wrap you up in these fucking threads you love so much so tightly they sink right into your flesh. I’ll destroy my hands to do it. One thread for each of them. I’ll listen to you scream._

_One for each of them._

He screams again, harsh and pleading. 

_He’s here, he’s here, oh god_ , that beautiful face twisted in panic, those soft hands closing on the wound, that irresistible voice shivering like fractured crystal. ‘My love, my love, what have you _done_?’

He reaches out and closes his hands around two of the threads. They cut into his palms, it feels perfect. Slowly, he wraps the first around his captor’s throat, right against the vocal cords, staring into his eyes. _For you, Hakyeon_.

‘I love you, Taekwoon,’ Hongbin whispers tenderly, tears spilling down his face. He pulls the thread tight.

And laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first tie-in fic to [Partners in Crime](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16803682). 
> 
> Based on the VIXX music video, Depend on Me. 
> 
> Inspirational soundtrack: Depend on Me, Voodoo Doll, Mistress, Into the Void


End file.
